SIBILLA'S DIRGE

By Thomas Lovell Beddoes

We do lie beneath the grass
In the moonlight, in the shade
Of the yew-tree. They that pass
Hear us not. We are afraid
They would envy our delight
In our graves by glow-worm night.
Come follow us, and smile as we;
We sail to the rock in the ancient waves
Where the snow falls by thousands into the sea
And the drown'd and the shipwreck'd have happy graves.